All posts by Snuffy

Everyone makes that same mistake when they see Ralph from the front desk. They go, “Well shit, Ralph has some tiny hands so it shall be easy for me to crush them into a mealy flesh paste before I go to Denny’s for their limited edition Holiday Harvest Skillet.”

But if you’re really looking to add some sizzle to your season, you better be read up, Peach Tea. For Ralph and his unremarkable hands have felled CEOs with a couple of baseball gloves for clodhoppers. Here’s some techniques to consume with your noodle before taking on the big dog himself.

The Rock and The Hard Place

Take the small yet formidable hand of Ralph the Intern into the welcoming embrace of your preferred spank mitten. Then take your southpaw and eclipse his little pygmy digits. You are a vice grip in your eighth grade woodshop, you’re Anton Yelchin’s new car, you’re the ocean swallowing the Titanic. You must be deaf to the screams.

The Pachaug Punisher

A bit of forewarning: This is an advanced level shake that requires the aid of an entire river to complete. A very spitty mouth will do in a pinch but that can be a dead giveaway for a certain hawk-eyed intern. You’re gonna reach in for that standard shake (American, not Australian ya goon) and hold his lotioned hand interlaced with your quintet of meat pistons. Then take your Grade A USDA certified beef sausages and lock him in. Sweep the legs, then either roll him into a gulley or unleash a Biblical torrent of expectorate from your negotiation orifice. You haven’t had a shake/workout like that in a while huh?

Maybe Just Be Nice to Ralph?

I’m really not sure what your problem with Ralph is. He’s a decent intern and those mitts of his are still mighty enough to schedule all necessary appointments. He can type around 90 words a minute, even on a big boy keyboard. So maybe you shouldn’t be mocking a man who’s making the best of the bad hand he was dealt.

A Hammer

This one is less of a handshake and more of a hammer and a putrid little baby babuu boy hand embracing each other. Plus, this shake is great for those who are with Ralph in a Home Depot or an under construction Denny’s a couple months before you really give his palms a pulverizing. You know, doing this could really end up hurting him a whole lot. If you’ve got such a beef with Ralph don’t you think it’d be best to maybe try and talk it out with him? Why do you always gotta be escalating shit to new levels like this?

Mazda Meathook Masher

This is a pretty cruel and unusual handshake, even for a saucy little cornball like yourself. First you’re gonna have to steal the keys to Intern Ralph’s modestly priced 1998 Mazda Miata. You won’t be able to miss it because it’s a flashy red sports car that he parks in my spot every-goddamn-day. Start joyriding that baby all over town until you’re out completely devoid of fuel/motivation (whichever comes first) then return to the last known location of Ralph, he’ll be there. Shake his teeny tiny flesh gripper and inform him of all the misdeeds that led to his Mazda’s disappearance. His hand will limp and his face shall grow pale, as you compress his carpal tunnel into the world smallest neutron star.

Ralph may have never done anything to deserve such unjust hate at your very hands, but just looking’ at him you can totally tell that his diminutive flesh carrots were due for a squishing. And you and me kid, we’re gonna take this town’s hands down a peg, one lowly unsuspecting trashbag of an intern at a time.

Greetings, ladies, it’s Sharon, your new best friend. This week we have another hefty sack of novels to sift through. We have a few fantastic selections: some, sadly, corporately-published, and one brave self-published. No need for big name authors here. I picked the best of the best, and brought them to you, personally. Intimately. Pour yourself a glass of that Franzia blush and buckle in, honey! Because this one’s going to be a doozie.

Lydia in the Wild, Mary Contrary, Penguin Publishing, 2017:

Lydia, our main character, is a small, religious, big-city girl with a tiny vagina. She’s your average lover – small and big-city-dwelling. Working full-time at a failing New York tabloid writing book reviews has left her womanhood parched as a puckering sundried tomato (and no, more oil-based lube won’t solve feminine dryness caused by years of sexual dissatisfaction). Attempts at seducing her 60-year-old married boss have proven less than fruitful. Lydia is exhausted, barely finding time on the weekends to pleasure herself with the $5 bullet vibrator she bought at Spencer’s on a dare at a bachelor party. When work sends her to the Wild Wild West of Newark, New Jersey for a research project, she discovers a big, small-town boy with a big, small, and medium member who will show her the ropes, quite literally. Within the first fourteen pages, Lydia is whisked away from the Big Apple to a life of shoddy investigative journalism, lassoes, and bondage (oh god, the bondage). Will Lydia leave her life of subdued mediocrity in a stifling city to bond to her rugged Rutgers cowboy in holy matrimony and sumptuous sanctified sex? This book, being only thirty pages with 32-point text, is an easy and steamy beach-read to leave by your husband’s bedside in an effort to get him to buy more Cialis, maybe pay some attention to lady-parts that, like Lydia’s, are bone-dry and unloved. Bring your bifocals and sarong down to the beach and give this one a hot read. 4.5/5 stars

How to Raise a Straight Daughter When You Are Questioning Your Own Sexuality (For Dummies), John Wiley & Sons, John Wiley & Sons, 2017 :

We’ve all done it, ladies. You’re at the soccer game waiting for your boy Cayden to come off the field (because your husband refuses to pick him up on Wednesdays, much like he refuses to satisfy your feminine needs). Your arms are full of juice boxes and other electrolyte-rich drinks for youngsters, when suddenly, you are struck by a divine beauty walking towards you. She introduces herself to you as Marlene, mother to Cayden’s friend Bricyn. She offers you a hand, and when she reaches out to take some of the drinks from your arms, to lighten your heavy load, you can’t help but notice her massive tidz. Is she pregnant? No, her stomach is totally flat, as can be seen through her well-fitted cashmere J. Crew cowl-neck sweater. Are they fake? No, they bounce like real bazookas (here, the handbook includes diagrams). Wait, you ask yourself, why are you thinking so much about this woman’s juggalos? Are you a pervert? Or worse – are you a lesbo? (I didn’t THINK I was raised on the Isle of Lesbos! The book even features a map) You shake these thoughts from your mind, but you cannot forget how giant her knockers were. Later that day at home, your teenage daughter comes home from the mall with – gasp! – a nose ring. Knowing that nose rings are used to tie women together – an act of lesbian sex – you demand that she remove it from her nose. But not so fast! Raising a straight daughter isn’t as easy as telling her to remove metal objects from her various cartilaginous body parts. To raise a straight daughter, you must be a straight icon. You must exude straightness. Your very coochie must ooze heterosexuality. Forget about the big-boobied-biddy you met at the soccer game and get yourself straightened up, first. 3.5/5 stars, -1.5 stars for too much breast description.

Cooking with Charlie, Sharon Blanda, Selfpublished, 2017:

This book has everything. Have you ever found yourself alone on a Sunday evening with nowhere to go but your refrigerator? Your husband is at work, he said. He’ll be home late, he said. Your children are already in bed, and your big-mouthed friends are at the Suburban Ladies Sunday Night Book and Hors d’Oeuvres Club without you. Once, Janice accidentally invited you on a Facebook event, then deleted it as soon as you noticed. You don’t talk to Janice anymore, because you’re too busy working for a big-name magazine. Yes. A big-name magazine. You find yourself alone, with no one to comfort you but – oh? Who is this, knocking on your refrigerator door? It’s Mr. Charles Shaw! Everyone’s favorite cheap $3 boy from Trader Joe’s, his tender red and white varieties pleasuring your palate with a tart tang. He is so good to you, and treats you so kindly. Charlie would never stay late at work. Charlie would never uninvite you to a social event. Charlie is a kind and giving lover; an affordable and high-alcohol-content friend. Cook with him. Chardonnay? Try the “Scalp Your Cheating Husband Scallops with Linguine.” Merlot? Roast an entire “Put Your Book Club Up Your Ass, Janice Pot Roast” and eat it with your bare hands from the crock pot. Make passionate love to this recipe book, as if you haven’t been fucked in years. This recipe masterpiece, written by yours truly, and featuring colorful and life-life illustrations by my son, was rejected from Penguin, Random House, Houghton-Mifflin, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, and even Tyndale (I took the fucking swears out!), but can be found as a self-publication on Amazon. 5/5 stars

We’ve all been there. You have a son who’s such a large handsome boy of a son, and you know the girls are gonna be trying to tame his crotch carrot faster than you can say, “son that’s actually called your penis, not your cloth carol.” So, how do you explain the lowdown, on the getdown, on the letdown,that is sex? Sex is a joyless, thankless experience. No one wants it, but you know your son is so long and handsome that it’s bound to be sprung upon him by someone handsome and wide. Here are seven clean ways to explain sex to your pure, cylindrical, handsome son.

1. “One time a million years ago, God grabbed a holy bee and stuck its stinger into a birds butt, and said ‘this is sex, and it is sin, but you must do it for me.’ So humans did it and still do it. That’s sex!”

This one is pretty much straight out of the Bible. Not religious, just scared? Here:

2. “When the fruit bat spots a piece of fruit that it would like to ingest purely for its nutrients, and maybe its flavor, it goes after it. Maybe it’s a small berry, or let’s say a papaya. Having lost the ability to echolocate in evolution, the fruit bat uses its keen sense of smell to stick its long carrot-like fang into the papaya. Once it has sucked out all the nutrients, it drops a big guano to the ground and flies off to find another papaya. That’s sex!”

If your handsome son loves bats as much as mine does then this will make them really happy.

3. “Remember those dreams you would have about dipping your crotch carrot into a bowl of mud? That’s not sex!”

If your handsome son has had these same dreams, then it’s probably good to clarify what sex is not. Just tell him this, and every other thing. He’ll get it.

This one only works if, at a young age, you told your handsome son that his penis is called a crotch carrot. If that’s the case, fire away!

5. “If a girl ever tells you that she’s ‘really enjoying this funnel cake that you purchased me at this county fair that you invited me to,’ you need to sneeze on said funnel cake, causing the sugar to encompass her. That’s sex!”

Nuff’ said.

Metaphor too apt for comfort? This one:

6. “Once a year on your lover’s birthday you should buy for them their favorite ice cream, then light one-hundred candles in the bedroom. Then you should melt the ice cream using the candles and pour it into your lover’s mouth. After that, they are ready for sex. Slowly insert your carrot into your lover’s carrot receiving sanctum, located exactly where your carrot is except lower or to the side. As soon as you start to feel the tingle of Farmer Joe, retract your carrot, or Farmer Joe will harvest it and you’ll never be able to pee again. That’s sex!”

Ah yes, this is how I first overheard about sex. I wanted my handsome son to have the same experience, so I made sure to recite the above paragraph every time he entered a room for four months. (Side note: If you need to bring a little fire to your bedroom, try the candle thing.)

7. “Son, we need to have a talk. Katie-Alice is the perfect cubical dimension for your cylindrical body. You should ask her to have sex and then have sex. To do so, just ask her to have sex and then let her do everything. You’re adopted, and not the result of my sex, and your mother and I’s marriage is purely financial. Farmer Joe harvested my carrot, or ‘penis’ as you now know, when I was 23. It was during Mardi Gras, and so he never gave it back. ”

Feel free to use any of these clean phrases to explain sex to your handsome son. Just slip them into any conversation. I know they worked with my boy!

The Brand Ambassador for Magnises (the totally legitimate and not a pyramid scheme service that allowed users to pay $250 dollars a month to slide their credit card into a larger credit card) once said on Fox Business, “When you marry the affluent with the less fortunate, you get…the birthchild…that is hip-hop”. At Ja Rule’s Fyre festival—where trapped millionaires wearing $2000 Gucci loafers can be seen beating each other over the head with toilet tanks for the grease left on empty pizza boxes—this philosophy appears to have been kept in mind: Fyre Festival is super Hip-Hop. When asked for comment, the rapper who once levied a diss track at Eminem’s infant daughter did his best to ease the minds of the attendees.

“Fyre Festival was an important event to everyone involved,” said Ja Rule from the top of a burning pile of Fyre Festival-branded merch. “We remain committed to providing a positive experience for all of our attendees. Please try to stay calm until rescue arrives. On the bright side, being stuck in your emergency shelter for days without real food or water is a great opportunity to check out my new tracks!”

Ja Rule then threw several copies of his EP into the crowd like frisbees, striking one attendee in the forehead.

“I really do feel terrible about what has happened,” Ja Rule told us. “We were looking forward to providing a positive experience for all the attendees here, and obviously that didn’t pan out. But you know, I’m excited to show off some of the new stuff I’ve been working on! It’s been a struggle getting back in the game, and it’s great to finally have some people to bounce ideas off of.”

When asked about the specific prospects of his future musical output, Ja Rule could only smile.

“I’m really looking forward to the creative collaboration that will come between me and those imprisoned here by the sea. Hopefully it’ll help mend some of the hurt feelings caused by being forced to sleep in tents and eat nothing but cheese for a few days. As I said in the promotion of Magnises–unlock your city today! Hip Hop is amazing, because it allows us to speak to the disenfranchised, and now I have disenfranchised thousands.”

None of the 7,000 attendees trapped on the island could be reached for comment.

Adding that it’s great Hofstra has finally got some money to spend, Hofstra University Student and RSR Emily Baum said she very much looks forward to sitting her pallid, shrinking corpse on the benches outside the new Frank G. Zarb School of Business and praying that manna descends from the heavens to nourish her. Or, in a total dream scenario, that her University employer at least starts paying her minimum wage.

“I was flinging my way through the ABP garbage bins and wondering how I’m going to pay my utility bills when I heard the news,” Baum says, with a faint voice. “I almost dropped the cigarette butts I was saving for lunch, I was so thrilled! Finally, a place on this campus where administrators can have nice offices!”

Baum, whose lack of a car prevents her from working somewhere with better pay, thinks the school made a great choice.

“You know, Hofstra takes these decisions very seriously; they’re just so good at providing the right resources to the student body,” Baum says. “We don’t need new dormitories that have working facilities, sturdy walls, and a lack of bug infestations. We don’t need better food, or cheaperfood. We need $2 million dollar renovations of Fraternity hangout spaces, we need well-paid college presidents, and, most of all, this brand new building where Hofstra students can make the most of their administrators having really comfortable places to avoid doing paperwork on time. Hofstra just gets it.”

“Wow, really? That’s so nice of them to think of us,” said the current RSR as she compares prices of textbooks for next semester to the total cost of eating three meals every day this week. “It’s inspiring to think that if Hofstra could come up with 30 Million Dollars to spend on a building, maybe I’ll be able to make rent work this month?”

According to sources close to him, Aspiring Weed Vlogger Jason Fullbright gazed, impotently at his blank Youtube page early this morning, desperately combing his mental rolodex for an interest in literally any hobby other than smoking weed.

Fullbright, known better on r/trees and the Youtube comments section as xXHyGuy69Xx, looked mournfully at his Youtube page—for which he had had a custom banner created—and audibly croaked at his lack of even a single upload.

“People get so many follows just smoking weed and doing something else. Just gotta find my niche.” Fullbright said aloud to himself. Or maybe he just thought it and forgot it again. GodDAMN, he is high.

Following six hours staring into the middle distance Jason said, “Just gotta find my niche. I used to play video games, but I don’t really have time anymore.” He then continued to stare for six more.

Here at Nonsense Humor Magazine, we know that ganja groupies can be found everywhere. We all know that one stoner: bleary-eyed, curled up in the corner, asking for some water or maybe a chip. But not just stoners are smoking the gud-gud today. Almost everyone does the thing! Where are these people, exactly? Are they hiding under your pillow? Are they in your Western Philosophy class? Are they your jaded and tenured professors? Are they writing for your own Long Island collegiate humor magazine?

No.

In a groundbreaking study from the chair of joint affairs at Jungian Organization for Intellegence In Natural Technology, a joint discovery was made between the joint chair and the University of Boulder. it has been discovered that at any given point in time, there are always exactly four-hundred and twenty individuals smoking marijuana (also known as cannabis, reefer, or the oregano you found in your dad’s underwear drawer at the tender age of nine). The study, which received an unprecedented number of student volunteer responses, surveyed the habits of cannabis connoisseurs everywhere. Twenty minutes ago? 420 people lighting one up. Thirteen seconds ago? 420 blunt-boyz blowing their bongos. The minute you were fucking born? 420 stoney-baloney-homies doing the dirty deed, one of which was your father in the car outside the hospital. “We are aware,” one of the weed scientists said, “That Marijuana has become a multibillion dollar industry. But there are always 420 people smoking. No less, and no more. That is why it is the number for weed.”

April 20th is celebrated by many, taken as a day of excess, intoxication and a bullish commitment to tired social media memery. And not just by Nazi’s (it is Hitler’s Birthday, but don’t worry, we did not even THINK of baking him a cake. We spit on Hitler. Petoowee!). Unbeknownst to many, 4/20 is also the day that a clandestine group of “weedheads” come out of the woodwork to smoke too much weed—the one day they do the thing they do everyday, and feel good about it. We here at Nonsense Humor, find this offensive, and antithetical to the spiritual and socio-religious importance the consumption of cannabis holds for so many. So we interviewed a monk. Hofstra’s only monk. Typically reclusive, we had only briefly corresponded with him online, and set a date (4/20) and a time (4:20) to meet him. We were not told he would be setting himself on fire when we got there.

As we approach the 18 year-old caucasian male and also self-proclaimed Buddhist monk he enlightens us on the importance of self-immolation especially on a momentous occasion such as the celebration of weed inhalation. He had this to say on the matter, “WELL YOU SEE, I’M A PRACTICING BUDDHIST, WHICH MEANS THAT I’M A MONK. YOU HAD YOUR BURNING MONK DURING THE VIETNAM WAR AND I THINK THAT’S WHAT ALL OF US MONKS WANT TO ACHIEVE. A FRIEND OF MINE NOTED THE DATE AND HE TOLD ME TO BLAZE IT SO I DID SOME DEEP INTROSPECTION AND HERE I AM!”

Keeping in mind that his perpetual shouting was not due to pain, rather, an attempt to literally have his voice heard over the violent roaring of flames that consumed his entire body, we pressed him further, and more loudly. On the topic of his beliefs, John Jacob Weedman (that’s not his real name) had only this to say, “THERE SEEMS TO BE A LOT OF PUSH-BACK WHEN IT COMES TO WEED SMOKING BUT I THINK WE HAVE TO WAKE THE SHEEPLE OF AMERICA UP TO REALIZE THE TRUE BENEFITS OF MARIJUANA. DID YOU KNOW THIS SHIT ACTUALLY GIVES YOU BRAIN CELLS? EVERY GENIUS IN HUMAN HISTORY SMOKED WEED. MICHAEL PHELPS SMOKES WEED. YOU THINK GALILEO SAW STARS AND SHIT SOBER? FUCK THAT, BRO, IT TAKES A LITTLE GANJ TO GET TO THAT LEVEL OF ENLIGHTENMENT. NEWTON PROBABLY SMOKED…OUR OWN PRESIDENTS SMOKED WEED TOO, I MEAN “FOUR SCORE” COME ON BRO THAT MEANS 420!”

At this point we didn’t have much else to say so he asked us if we wanted to see “SOMETHING COOL” which involved smoking a joint from one of the newly melted holes in his face. We’re forced to objectively report that it wasn’t even a little bit cool. The boy then tried to educate us on the topic of the diverse biology of weed. “DID YOU KNOW THAT THERE’S MORE THAN ONE KIND OF WEED?” asked J.J. Weedman. “PEOPLE DON’T REALLY REALIZE IT BUT THERE’S ALL KINDS OUT THERE I MEAN YOU GOT YOUR ACHILLEA MILLEFOLIUM, BELLIS PERENNIS, CIRSIUM ARVENSE, PLANTAGO MAJOR, AND MY PERSONAL FAVORITE, TARAXACUM OFFICINALE.”

Weedman also possessed small, metal crates full of herbs and covered in Sublime decals. When asked what their contents were, he told us, “OH THAT’S JUST MY PERSONAL COLLECTION. I GOT MY HANDS ON A FINE LITTLE NUMBER CALLED TOXICODENDRON RADICANS!”

Despite many warnings on our part to prevent him from smoking what is literally just poison ivy, he said, “COME ON, BRO! IT’S GOT ‘RAD’ IN THE NAME! YOU KNOW I GOTTA SMOKE THAT SHIT.”

We understood how impressive it was, either way, that he was sacrificing himself for his beliefs, whether it be by self-immolation or suffocation by the inhalation of burnt poison ivy smoke. To be completely honest, there’s a lot of different ways a person can die in a situation as unique as this one. That being said, our monk friend said, and we quote, “HAHAH WHAT DO YOU MEAN, BRO? MONKS CAN’T DIE!” There was a pause before he continued. “WE LIKE RESURRECT AND SHIT, MAN! IT’S FUCKING DOPE!”

We can neither confirm nor deny the validity of this statement and made this known to him. There wasn’t a lot of time for him to fully be concerned with the possibility that there is not, in fact, life after death so he instead chose to accept his demise with a heartfelt message, mostly involving his excitement to experience Nirvana.

Well there you have it. We are legally obligated to report whether or not this small man actually died. He did. He definitely fucking died. You don’t light yourself on fire before smoking poison ivy and survive.

Anyway, happy weed number day, you filthy pringles. Only eight more days until Arbor Day!

You’ve been hit by the analog bulletin train! Pass this onto 15 people who need to take a good, hard look at their disastrous, unbalanced life.

When everything in your entire whole life has gone to fuck and back, take a remember at this good speech from an extremely wise woman. Because she was wise, she was a professor. And because she was a professor, she gave a speech, to her class.

“Why don’t you all look at this mason jar that I have.” The class looked, because they were a good class.

“Here i am, gonna fill it up with sand.” The professor then poured enough sand into the jar to fill it halfway.

“This represents the ‘earth,’ your main priorities in life. Because without some ground beneath our feet, where would we have a leg to stand on, or a stand for our legs?” quoth the professor. The class nodded quietly in rapt approval.

“Now, class, would you say that the jar is full?”

“No, I’d say it’s about halfway full.” a student spake. “You might want to think about pacing yourself, as far as the sand is concerned, or maybe, add the larger elements in first, and the smaller particulates later, so that there’s enough room.

“You are expelled. Never question the unquestionable authority of the tenured professor.” The student was astonished at her doctrine.

What the professor did next was even more astonishing.

“Next, I’m put some pebbles on top of the sand. Next most important in life, are the little rocks that give our lives texture. Salt is a rock, and they say the “salt of the earth” is what makes life so interesting!” The professor then reached deep, deep, deep into her most deepest pockets, scooping out two heaping handfuls of gravel and coarse salt. Pouring the rocks into the jar, the earthy contents almost reached the top.

“Other important rocks are diamonds, which signify both everlasting love and child labor; the duality of man.” The professor then reached deep, deep, deep into an even deeper pocket inside of the first one. Producing a handful of diamonds, she poured those over top of the gravel, spilling out of the top of the jar like a silty parfait.

“Now, class, would you say that the jar is full?”

A few scattered students said “Yes. The jar is overflowing with precious minerals. The Swarovskian nonpareils shimmer in the fluorescent light, guiding us. We are content, and cannot, at this time, imagine an addition to this glass metaphor of our human life that would provide us with more satisfaction,” in unison; in monotone.

“Your manner of thinking is maddeningly limited. You are all incorrect. Expand your minds, and let’s get our full life.” The professor then reached into a student’s ear and produced 3 golf balls.

“Now, the golf balls, represent sports, leisure, and self-care. These are the least important things to have in your life; golf is for losers, leisure is for those without anxiety, and self-care is a fad diet invented to sell ad space on tumblr dot com.” The professor then attempted to balance the 3 golf balls on top of the glittering sediment jar, but the opening was too small for all 3 golf balls to rest comfortably against each other in a triangular configuration.

One of the golf balls fell on the ground.

Just when the class thought she was done, the professor did the most surprising thing of all!

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out 3 beers. After the raucous laughter subsided, one intrepid learner’s hand stood at attention.

“I get it, Professor! The true lesson, is that at the end of the day, you always have time left to kick back and enjoy a few beers with friends.”

Chuckling, the professor responded with a sage thesis.

“If you convince public safety that alcohol is an essential part of an extended metaphor for prioritizing your life, you can bring it onto campus.”

For Immediate release from the office of the Press Secretary, Sean Spicer. The following press briefing concerns the steps taken to create the Trump™ Wall, as well as the duties of the Press Corp and their expected treatment of the office of the Press Secretary. This press briefing is due for immediate release to all media organizations with a rating of “Not Shitty” and higher.

​​​​James S. Brady Briefing Room

3:05 P.M. EDT

Mr. Spicer: Sorry for the delay guys, it’s pizza day. I was supposed to kick this off with my pal Kellyanne. She’s really busy and is doing important business things, key business events and duties. So my goal is we bang out your stupid questions first today and then I’ll drop a vital piece of information as Kellyanne walks in right on cue, and then she’ll talk to you as your editors struggle to put together a half decent non-sensationalized story. So hopefully this all works out.

Before I take questions, I’m gonna shake things up – I’m gonna call on my New York Times buddies. Saw what you guys said the other day, alright. Not even gonna bite. I do so know who Hitler is. He’s my favorite golfer. If that’s controversial, then I don’t want to be PC. Sure, he’s not perfect, but who hasn’t had dealt with a little marital strife? We can’t all be Pence. So he cheated on his wife, at least he played an honest game! Great numbers, that Hitler. I remember when he won the masters, god I love the masters, golf is the only American sport. Don’t even understand why this was a story…making this a race thing when my favorite golfer is half-black.

Whatever.

Go ahead.

Ask the question.

Now.

NYT: That’s literally not anywhere close to who Hitler is?

Mr. Spicer: Okay.

NYT: …Actually, this is a great segue into our question is: what the fuck is wrong with you?

Mr. Spicer: I’m sorry? Do you not like golf?

NYT: Seriously, “At least Pol Pot just killed nerds with glasses?” What the fuck is wrong with you dude?

Mr. Spicer: H’okay then. It’s like that. Alright. Listen guy, I just work here, okay? There’s this assumption going around that I enjoy being around you people. You, in your weird ivory high road tower — you hacks at the Times are almost as bad as “Democracy Dies in the Darkness” over there. Yeah that’s right Washington Post, I know you snuck into this briefing. Maybe next time try to be a little less conspicuous and just leave the merch table in the van, hmm?

WaPo: Point taken…

Mr. Spicer: You all can’t just throw questions at me and expect that I’ll answer them, that’s a very New York way of looking at a problem.

NYT: But that literally makes n—

Mr. Spicer: I understand what you’re trying to say but I literally do not care. I just work here day in and day out while you take Buzzfeed quizzes on your phone, that’s right I fucking know about your phone CNN Mike. Do you think I have read a history book in my goddamn life? Do you think I understand the socio-economic crisis plaguing the global economy? No, I fucking don’t. President Trump has been in office for over 60 days now, and you think I enjoy any of this? I mean, I do because I used to work at a Dennys and its just nice to come home sometimes and not smell like syrup. Have you ever worked at a Dennys? Have you ever woken up every morning, rode your bike six miles, and then spent eight hours serving eggs in all-too-bright single-parent purgatory? I mean, my coworkers were actually pretty great but all that is beside the point. I hate literally all of you, I hate that you don’t care about my opinion in music. What I don’t hate is the American taxpayer, unlike you MSNBC Karen. Whatever. Press Conference over.

NYT: What?

Mr. Spicer: Thanks guys, I look forward to seeing everyone except the organizations I have now deemed “Kind of Shitty”. Take care.